


Foreign Relations(hips)

by rowrowthehoehoe



Category: Donald Trump- fandom, Political RPF - US 21st c., Politics- fandom, Real Person Fiction, Vladimir Putin-fandom
Genre: (i have no idea if she actually approves this message), (i'm not actually Hillary Clinton), .... maybe, I'm Hillary Clinton and I Approve This Message - Freeform, I'm sleep deprived, M/M, Multi, This is crack, also an asshole, do it before the 1st amendment is revoked, donald trump is a lizard person, i mean at this point i wouldn't be surprised, i'm really sorry (except not), it's really really a crack fic, there's Heavy Shit™, this is a trainwreck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-09-30 14:17:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10164773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowrowthehoehoe/pseuds/rowrowthehoehoe
Summary: Donald sat glumly in the barren Russian field, clutching his expensive— and, ironically, China-made— jacket to him. His lips were pursed— I mean, they were always sorta pursed, but this… this was a worried purse. More defined than usual.He checked his watch impatiently. Ten minutes late. What a los—“Donald,” a steamy Russian voice said from behind him.Donald spun on his heels. There he was: Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin, looking as stunningly dead inside as the first time Donald saw him.“You’re late.”ORDonald and Vladimir hook up, only to be interruptedgifted to irrumambam because i'm an asshole





	1. The Meeting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> i gotta post this before Trump takes away my first amendment rights

Donald sat glumly in the barren Russian field, clutching his expensive— and, ironically, China-made— jacket to him. His lips were pursed— I mean, they were always sorta pursed, but this… this was a worried purse. More defined than usual.  
He checked his watch impatiently. Ten minutes late. What a los—  
“Donald,” a steamy Russian voice said from behind him.  
Donald spun on his heels. There he was: Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin, looking as stunningly dead inside as the first time Donald saw him.  
“You’re late.”  
As soon as the words left his mouth, Donald mentally chastised himself. What ever happened to play it cool, Donnie?  
“I apologize,” Putin’s expression didn’t change from that sexy, smoldering brood. “I had… a business meeting that went overdue.”  
Donald isn't sure where the sudden pettiness comes from, but he can't stem its tide. “Are you sure you weren't just fooling around with Obama?”  
Surprise flared in Putin’s dead, watery eyes. “What? No. You know I ended things with Bara--Obama long ago.”  
If Donald still had most human emotions (which, yeah, he really didn't. All he really felt anymore was lust, greed, hate and anger), he would have felt guilty. Maybe he would have said sorry.  
Instead, he just climbed up onto the horse in front of Putin, spreading his legs seductively, his saggy chin raised high and his puffy, overly pale eyes narrowed.  
“Donald,” Vladimir’s voice was low and husky, “Donald...”  
Slowly, with the passion of a thousand smouldering, narrow-eyed looks the both of them were in the habit of making, their lips gravitated towards each other. And, slowly, they met.  
The kiss was sloppy; Donald was in the habit of giving wet kisses, though that likely stemmed from the fact he had no idea how to properly kiss. He just… did. And he overcompensated doing so, his thin, thin, pouted lips opening far too wide. It was a problem, but Vladimir didn’t seem to mind all too much.  
Their tongues fought for dominance, dancing around each other sloppily. Drool unashamedly flowed from their mouths, slicking their chins. If there was one good thing that came from all Donald’s years of spouting bullshit, it was that he could use his tongue okay.  
Donald could feel the strain in Putin’s bear hide pants already, and thus, accordingly, he broke off with a smirk.  
“It looks like someone wants me to invade Russia tonight."  
“Oh, Donald,” Putin’s face was still in it’s blank, emotionless mask, but his eyes… well, there was maybe a little fire that managed to repel the waters of death that lay perpetually in those icy blues. “I want you more than I have ever wanted Ukraine.”  
A loud groan left Donald’s lips at this; it became even more drawn out when Putin ran his cold, Russian corpse-fingers through his weave. Donald’s hands worked on his belt-buckle. “I’m gonna grab you by the pussy.”  
That plan, however, was interrupted shortly, as Donald and Vladimir were in the process of undressing.  
“P-Putin-sama,” a familiar deep voice broke through the heaviness of Putin and Donald’s shared passion, sounding utterly betrayed. “How, uh, how could you?”  
“Obama,” Putin showed genuine surprise. “Well. This did not go according to keikaku.”  
(Translator’s Note: Keikaku means plan)  
“You, uh, you bastard!” Obama yelled. “I, uh, came here for you and you, uh, cheat on me! Seconds, uh, seconds after you fuck me!”  
“You what?” Donald said blankly. He had a strange feeling like the world was crashing down around him. He hadn’t ever felt that sensation before. It was new and unpleasant and he really, really didn’t like it.  
“Break up sex,” Vladimir said with a wave of his hand. “Though I suppose I forgot the breaking up part.”  
A single, solitary tear fell down Obama’s face. As it splattered onto the frozen dirt ground, it formed the image of the bald eagle.  
“How, uh, how dare you,” Obama said, glaring at Vladimir. “And you--” he whirled to face Donald, “--you, uh, you asshole! You take my, uh, country, you take my, uh, job, and now, uh, you take my boyfriend!”  
Donald raised his chin imperiously. “Who cares. You’re just a big LOSER! _You’re fired_!”  
An angry looked passed over Obama’s face. He took a step forward, only to have a pale, firm hand hold him back.  
“Don’t Barak,” Harry Styles said. His shirt was opened wide to reveal his weird-ass butterfly/moth/? tattoo, and through the thin silk you could see every hard line of his body. “They’re not worth it.” His shoes were gold. Donald wanted them.  
“Harry?” Obama said, shock evident in his face. “What, uh, are--”  
“I saw you at my concert, all those years ago,” Harry explained. “Ever since then I couldn’t stop thinking about you. But I was on tour, and you’re the president....”  
“Not anymore,” Obama said. There was a wonder in his eyes.  
Harry blushed and looked down. “I was wondering… do you want to--”  
“Yes.” Obama said. “Yes.”  
And so Harry and Obama left Donald and Vladimir alone in the fields again, and the latter pair had sex. All the sex. Great sex, too. Believe me, it was great. Huge.

_I’m Hillary Clinton, and I approve this message._

 


	2. Paris Accords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donald fucks over the environment, but that's not nearly enough to sate him. 
> 
> Steve Bannon is a horny fucking racist.
> 
> And yes, I mentioned "Trump Temptations: The Billionaire and the Bellboy" because that's my favorite fucking thing ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why am I writing another sequel. When will I find Deliverance™
> 
> (the answer is because i came up with a really shitty joke and had to do something about it)

Donald nodded to his superior, Steven Bannon, as the latter man left the Oval Office. He was now alone, and took off his human face-mask so that his lizard skin might breathe.  
“Well,” he said, cracking the knuckles on his TREMENDOUSLY ‘UGE hands. “Who needs the environment, anyway.”  
He pulled out his phone-- hidden in the deep folds of his person so that his White House staff (who had done their best to always monitor his phone usage after the ‘covfefe’ incident, but what they don’t know won’t hurt them)-- and, knowingly breaking the Presidential Records Act but not caring in the slightest, turned off the surveillance around the room. His fat little fingers dialed a number more than familiar by now.  
“Donald,” that steamy, monotonous Russian voice said, sending shivers down his spine. “I vas not expecting your call.”  
“Hello, Vladimir,” Trump said imperiously. He raised his reptilian chin in the air. Briefly, he remembered the bellboy in his hotel in Hong Kong, whom he had scared off before sex. He was more than glad Vladimir accepted him, thick, long reptile tail and all. “Did Bannon tell you the news?”  
“That you are pulling out of the Paris Accords, screwing over the entire environment? Da. What off it?”  
“I’m coming over tonight.” Donald whispered in a way he thought was sexy.  
“And?” There was the tiniest flicker of interest in Vladimir’s voice.  
“And,” Donald grinned, “The Paris Accords are the only thing I’m pulling out of tonight.”  
Behind the closed door of the Oval Office, Steve Bannon came into his pants like a racist, melted teenager who had been hit in the face with a spray of bullets-- not enough to really damage him, but enough to fuck up his face, permanently. He quaked with the knowledge that, someday soon, he’d get in on that action. For now, though, he was fine jerking off in the middle of the hallway like a horny teenager.  
“No homo,” he whispered as he walked away. “No homo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry about the image that paragraph about Steve Bannon. If it's any condolence, I had to picture it, too. And actually write it down. It's worse. Trust me. It's so much worse.

**Author's Note:**

> Just for legal reasons, these are fictionalized characters based of real persons. I'm spoofing the fuck out of this but, again, I wouldn't be surprised if... yeah.
> 
> I'm not saying all Russians have corpse fingers by the way. Just Putin. Yeah. 
> 
> I'm sorry @ Obama and Harry Styles.  
> I'm not sorry @ Trump and Putin. Y'all can kiss my gay ass


End file.
